THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.
179
And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre,
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire,
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,
Loos'd from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.
For her head sank back on the rugged wall,—
A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall;
She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone;
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!
